


A Precious Moment

by Dragoncounsel121



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Sword of Seals, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Something cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoncounsel121/pseuds/Dragoncounsel121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short-form drabbles</p><p>1) Roy has a place in Castle Pherae that is near and dear to his heart. <br/>2) Ewan needs a little pick me up. <br/>3) Lilina needs a day off.<br/>4) Owain can serious...sometimes<br/>5) Uther is too old for this bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Study

Roy’s most favoritest place in the entire castle was his father’s study. It was large with a high ceiling and big walls piled all the way to the top with books and scroll. The bright red wood was always smooth and so well polished Roy could see his face in it. The rugs on the floor were soft and cuddly but just firm enough to be fun for rolling in. The chairs were squishy and sank when he jumped into them and made a big “THWUMPH”.

But the best part was that Father and Lowen were always there. 

Lowen was big, many times again as tall as the little lord, but nice. He was the one who always played with Roy. He never refused to pick him up and swing him on top of his shoulders where he’d be even taller than Father (and Father was very very tall)! Lowen was also the one who brought Roy to places he asked on a big white horse and helped him fix his little wooden soldiers when their heads or arms broke off. He helped dressed him in the morning and tucked him into bed each night after Mother got too sick to do it anymore. Now that Mother’s gone to her parents (and Roy was sad, but he could understand my Mother wanted to go), Lowen and Rebecca were the only ones who could.

Rebecca was ok, but her name was hard to say. Besides Lowen was the only one who would let him have snacks even if it was just before supper. 

He really loves Lowen.

Father, though, worked a lot (a LOT a lot). Almost every time Roy saw him he was behind a desk writing on cream colored sheets of parchment in his tiny neat letters that marched across the page like little ants in a super straight line. Roy sometimes wondered if they were even straighter than the ants. They never moved out of place. Father’s hands and clothes always smelled of the earthy ink he used even though he never got any of it on anything (unlike Roy who sometimes found it difficult to stay inside his little practice slate and sometimes had chalk marks on his forehead from falling asleep on it). He didn’t spend time with Father that often. When he does, it was because he’d been an especially good boy.  
He really loves Father too though, maybe even more than Lowen.

The first memory Roy had of Father was when the older man taught him how to draw. Father wasn’t like the mean icky governess who made him memorize stupid ugly letters that didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t made Roy add boring dots and lines on his little slate. Father had taken Roy’s little hand inside his own big warm one and helped him hold the wobbly stick of chalk while they both drew little chalk cats all over the dark stone surface. When they were done with cats, they drew horses and added little Lowens on top of some and little Isadoras on top of other and even little Fathers and Roys. They drew soldiers with their stick lances, archers and their curved bows, and an axeman that Father laughed and named Hector. Father even helped Roy draw a big dragon all across his slate. 

The second memory was the first night after Mother left on her trip. Roy had been afraid, so very afraid, although he didn’t remember why. He was so scared he couldn’t move couldn’t scream for Lowen or Rebecca from beneath his blankets. Neither the fire in the fireplace or his favorite soft toy did anything to drive away the fear. He couldn’t even cry, it was so bad.

And then Father came. Without Roy ever calling, or making a sound, Father knew, and Father came. He rushed immediately to Roy’s bedside and wrapped Roy up in his inky robes and draping sleeves and held him tight and warm and safe. He picked Roy up and carried him out of the scary room and into the study with it’s beautiful warm red wood and nice carpets and sat in one of the squishy chairs. And he stroked Roy’s forehead like mother used to and sang to Roy, softly, that song Mother always used to sing. It sounded a lot lower and kind of growly...it was a good kind of growly. 

Little Roy had fallen asleep just as soon as his tears were dry.

So now, he was proud to be there again with Father smiling down at him from behind the redwood desk.

“Roy, you’ve been working hard lately,” Father praised him. Roy sparkled with pride. “How would you like to come with me on a trip to visit a friend of mine?” 

Roy’s eyes grew wide. Father’s friend were all big important grown-ups. Roy knew, he often saw them coming and going. Grand old men with bushy beards, long willowy women with billowing cloaks and long embellished staves, rough scarred giants with swords strapped to their hips (but not as big as Lowen), and even a lady with a flying horse!  


(Pegasus, Young Lord Roy, that is a Pegasus, Lowen would say.) 

“Can I really?” he asked in wonder.

Father nodded. 

“Of course, it’ll be good for us both to get a little fresh air, I think.”

Fresh air with father always involved horses. If he wasn’t already going before, he was DEFINITELY going NOW!


	2. Coping

In some ways, war was almost a relief for young Ewan. For the first time in a long time, Ewan belonged to something again, something grand, even if it was only the ragtag facismile of the Renais army. He was no longer the little oddity of Caer Pelyn both a stranger and a fixture of the tiny little village. He wasn't just "the Sage's boy". People talked with him now, people sought him out to say things that were absolutely meaningless, and it felt good! 

At least...in between battles.

In battle, it was different. In battle, his hands were shaky and his mouth was dry. In battle he choked for want of a single breath that didn't taste like blood and ash in his throat. In battle he was more often than not burning people whose backs were turned, and he was selfishly relieved for it because that meant one less face that haunted his nightmares.

Ewan didn't sleep so well anymore, battle or no battle.

That night was particularly bad. He didn't remember the dream, only the terror. He woke up nauseous and could barely manage to stumble outside the tent to empty what little dinner he'd managed to force down into the dirt outside. His eyes stung, but the tears wouldn't come, just the bitter sour taste of his own stomach acid. Feeling even worse, he turned away from it and curled into a ball dry heaving, dry sobbing until everything burned with a vengeance.

And then there were hands, soft, gentle hands that smelled like ink and candlewax, that turned him over and coaxed his body to unclench. The stiff leather mouth of the canteen felt smooth and soothing on his lips and then there was water, sweet biting cold water. It felt wonderful, and even though after a few mouthfuls, it came back up again it was still nice.

The hands let him throw himself aside and continue vomiting, stroking his hair and rubbing his back all the while. When he was done, he was offered the canteen again.

"Drink Ewan," the familiar voice murmured somewhere above him. "You need to replenish the waters of your body."

He obeyed, luckily able to keep it down this time.

"Teacher? S-sorry," he groaned. He'd gotten sick over the long trailing hem of the robes.

Saleh's face was almost invisible in the moonless, starless night. Ewan tried to imagine what kind of expression it was making, to no avail. 

"It's alright, Ewan," Saleh whispered. The older man's voice, sounded different from its usual cool clarity, almost as cloudy as the sky overhead. "It's alright."

Ewan's breathing slowly calmed as he was folded carefully into soft sleeves and cloak and carried back inside the tent. He had never felt safer; to the point that he couldn't quite stifle a soft noise of protest when they went away. 

There was a quiet sigh and then his stained threadbare night shirt was taken off and replaced with one that was much too big but warm and clean. A warm wet cloth mopped up the sweat and tears on his face. A hand shifted him just slightly this way before a tall, slender body slipped under the fleece blanket beside him.

Funny enough, the tears chose now to come and he buried them into Saleh's bedclothes as he fell into the most peaceful sleep he's had in a long long time.


	3. Marchioness

Lilina took a deep shuddering breath. 

She was afraid. 

This was only the second time she had met with other lords, outside of her father's presence. It was the very first time that she would do so as a governor. 

The empty void loomed like a giant beside her. There had no been time for official robes, her father's were too big and there hadn't been any time to get any made. Privately she wondered if she mightn't have worn them anyways. Maybe there was some inherent Ostian toughness left inside them. Her circlet sat like lead upon her brow. It's crest, rather scuffed in the fighting, dug sharply into her skin. She clenched her hands.

She was tired! They had just gotten back. They had just faced down a continent gone to chaos; a fate no man, much less a green horn trainee fresh out of training, should ever have to fight! Didn't she deserve a little rest?

Roy had offered to come with her, the sweet boy, of course he did. Even silly dense as a stone Roy could see her shaking. But Lilina had refused. He was, after all, Pherae's heir. This was Ostian business. 

Ostia.

For Ostia...she will greet the council. For Ostia she will stand forth as heir.

For Ostia, she had no right to be afraid.

The young Marchioness stepped forward and firmly pushed the door open. 

"Marchioness." She was greeted by an single, soft voice.

Her eyes set upon a lone figure. Outlined against the flickering colors of a beautiful stained glass window stood a man of average size clothed in linen robes of rich blues and bright greens, Pherae colors, against which his bright scarlet hair and sickly pale complexion nearly glowed. Despite that his posture was easy and relaxed, yet held straight by the solemnity of his station. Except that wasn't it either. He could be staggering, she thought, and there would still be a regal air about him, a quiet sense of nobility she did not posses. 

She knew this man.

Lilina took a deep breath.

"Marquess Pherae," Lilina greeted him formally. She had to remember that he was no longer the kind friend who housed her during her last stay. That man, her father's unassuming friend, had been pre-war, pre-power. War and power, brought out the worst in people. She had learned that lesson well and so she faced him as he faced her, with shoulders rigid, ready for yet another battle. In a spontaneous act of defiance even she wasn't wholly aware of until it happened, Lilina decided not to curtsy. No, that was for young court ladies. Instead, she placed her arm across her chest, hand over her heart, and bowed just as her father would have done.

The smile he gave her was indecipherable. 

"We have much to do yet, Marchioness Ostia," he stated neutrally. Lilina nodded and steeled herself.

"...But now is not the time for it." He continued.

The words made her eyes snap towards his, searching, seeking for traces of malice, of greed, like her father had taught her to do. There was nothing there. 

Lord Eliwood leaned towards her, his head titled just so that their eye contact was ever so lightly askew. Lilina fought the urge to step back unnerved. Was this a test? Did he hope to catch her off guard? Was she prepared to think such horrible things of Roy's father?

Eliwood frowned. Lilina drew her shoulders together on reflex. 

Suddenly a cool dry hand pressed itself against her forehead.

"You've wounds," he said almost incredulously. "And you're quite a bit warm. We ought to get you a healer..."

"Lord Eliwood," she protested, "I...I mean...the council."

"Can wait." Soft blue linen swept her into a warm cocoon. Lilina tensed as she felt arms wrap around her shoulders, but the embrace did not let up. "Please, don't worry. I've sent them off for now. You will have time enough for them later."

His hug was not like her father's, who always squeezed so tightly around her torso she couldn't breathe, whose beard tickled and scratched at the side of her face, who half carried her in his bulging arms and swung her around until she felt like she was flying. These thin, shaky limbs that wrapped around her now were too soft, too faint, too everything. They were all wrong. Even so, she shivered inside them, and her body, so steady before, wracked with stifled sobs. All the hurt of the last two years fought came rushing out all at once.

Lilina cried silently, stubbornly into Eliwood's shoulder.

In three days, when she had seen the best healer Lycia could offer. When she'd had sleep and food and new official robes cut and sewn and embroidered just for her. When she stood proudly crested and polished with her hair done up with her mother's best pins and her father's finest circlet. Then...then she would face the shrewd and blood thirsty political mess that was the Lycian council. Then, she would be strong. Then, she would be ready. Then, she would finally reclaim her place, along with the similarly reforged Wolfbeil on her sash, as a Marchioness of all Lycia.

But for now.....For now, she was a daughter. And Eliwood was a father, not her father, but a father. And for now...that would have to be enough.


	4. Being a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to have a little tact.
> 
> Owains seems to get by without though.

Morgan didn't get nightmares...not like Owain did, and in the morning light, he would sometimes feel guilty about waking her so rudely. 

Was he jealous? 

Sometimes. Sometimes, it was very hard not to be. Must really be something to sleep so soundly at night. Owain hadn't had a good night's sleep since he was twelve years old. His failures had made sure of that. It used to be that Morgan couldn't sleep either...until now. 

He would never begrudge Morgan her blessings of couse, but by Naga's name, it'd be nice.

Or so he thought until he managed to finally jerk his head out of his ass and back into reality. 

If he'd done it sooner maybe he would have seen how awful a toll it took on the diminuitive girl. Maybe he would have seen how his questions cut at her, how his reminiscing hurt her. He didn't until he came across her smashing her silly little face against a magic tome of all things and clawing at her beautiful hair.

He moved immediately, because how could he not? After all those nights she spent beside him? After all those little whispered stories, read from whatever books they'd managed to scavenge, into his ear when he was too delirious to hear anything else? He was supposed to protect her! Her if no one else. 

It was Owain's turn to comfort her now. 

So he rushed to her side and seized her, with all he had of his father's strength and all he knew of his mother's sweetness because he was a hero and heroes didn't let people hurt themselves like that; because the one and only thing Owain could proudly say he did right was somehow keeping little Morgan living and breathing and not dead.

So he curled around his precious sister, berating, apologizing, bodily protecting her from her own machinations. He let the reddened forehead beat instead against his chest, and the clawing hands dig into the soft wool of his shirt.

Who cared for memories? She didn't NEED any old musty memories. She needed him.

And he was never going to let her get hurt, ever again.


	5. Presiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a character study for one of the best NPCs lol.
> 
> Fem!Hector because why not?

Uther of Ostia was exactly eight fingers' with taller (by the Marquess's own hand) than his sister Hecuba, and five broader across the shoulders. He seized on to both facts with a private desperation that was entirely unbecoming of him as Marquess Ostia.

He really didn't have much else. 

For all his book-learning and philosophy, Hecuba put him to shame in every way that mattered. Like their mother she was a lively sort of girl, but she had inherited, like Uther, her father's broad features and unshakable build. With her ever confident smile and the kingly (yes KINGLY) way she held herself, Hecuba looked every bit the ruler he didn't feel he could be. In fact his sister had been mistaken for his BROTHER more times than can be counted on both hands. 

On only about two thirds of said occasions had she been in full armor.

Now Uther himself was not a small man by any means, but he had inherited some measure of his mother's gentle tact - something Hecuba seemed to do perfectly fine without - and he had the good sense to be grateful for the unintended boon of his sister. The focus, the back biting, the nasty rumors, they bounced off her plated shoulders like so many ill fated arrows and distracted people from his rocky transition into the void of power their parents left behind.

But even as he was confined to the throne, doomed to watch his vibrant and somewhat abrasive young sister running around twirling swords over her head as the years went by, he could say that he was content.

...at least until she started twirling axes. 

Then he had forbidden the foot soldiers in his army to ever teach her anything to do with axes hoping to at least mitigate the damage.....but just for emergencies, he secretly commissioned the Wolf Beil with all haste and placed it in the royal vault. Such a beautiful thing the Wolf Beil with it's gorgeous engraved brass handle and it's thread fine edge of tempered steel. It was no silver ax but it was light and sharp so his sister could easily handle it and chop up any thing she really needed to.

It was just as well as it seemed the much beloved Hecuba had wheedled an old, sharpened to the quick, iron ax out of one of the PHERAEN guards who often conducted Marquess Pherae and young Eliwood to his court but were unfortunately NOT privy to his unoffical additions to the knight's code of Ostia, and taught herself how to wield the thing.

He couldn't blame Eliwood for helping her, really. The gentle little slip of a boy never stood a chance. 

Uther himself hadn't managed to figure out if the red-haired child was actually fond of his sister, or quite frankly, too terrified to run away from her. But as it was Hecuba coddled him like a beloved pet throughout most of their childhood together, and Eliwood followed her like the little duckling that he was, apologizing in his polite embarrassed way whenever Hecuba got them both into trouble. Eventually the boy even grew confident enough to chide and guilt the young Ostian lady into somewhat behaving.

The day he found a thirteen year old Eliwood fussing at Hecuba about her dismal history marks, Uther calmly walked back inside and prepared a letter requesting to open betrothal negotiations to Lord Elbert. Elbert hadn't quite had the audacity to laugh in his face about but he stipulated that he was in agreement only insofar as Eliwood acquiesced of his own accord once of age. It was atypical condition amongst their peers to be sure but acceptable, all things considered. After all, by then Eliwood had had nearly half a decade to flee screaming, and he hadn't.

Furthermore Uther couldn't say that he liked any of the other proposals that have been flooding in at all. Or rather he felt sorry for the spindly little squirrels whose fathers forced them to associate with a girl that might snap them in two...on accident. Eliwood could at least mostly see it coming. He might even dodge.

That was the only reason why he didn't raise an alarm now, as he watched her attempt to scale the palace walls in full armor, a hastily packed travel sack slung over her shoulders.

"Mathew," he sighed bringing one hand up to massage his temples. "Please, go help her. I can't bear to watch this any longer."

"Yes my lord." The spy swept a grandiose bow and, not without a chuckle at Uther's expense, disappeared.

"Oswin."

"Yes my lord?"

"Go pack up and wake Serra. Between you three, I think you'll manage," Uther commanded almost lazily. "And remember, I don't know anything."

"Yes, sire."


End file.
